“Not my type. Let’s go. It’s late and we both have to work tomorrow,” I say flatly.
Billy sighs, takes one last sip of his beer, and puts the half-empty bottle on the bar.
"So what exactly is your type? I mean other than a total jerk who treats you badly and steals your company," Billy asks with a cheeky grin as we make our way toward the door.
I try to look pissy about that comment. But the truth is, I’ve missed Billy and his bluntness. We’ve kept in touch through the years but it’s been a while since Billy and I have been in the same place at the same time since turning eighteen. Billy was on the race circuit. I got two degrees in England before heading back to Sydney to open my agency. The idea of spending regular time with Billy was a part of the reason I took this insane position. I mean, it wasn’t the biggest part, but it factored in.
“You want my type? Okay. I like them thinner than that guy in the bar. And shorter. And with light eyes. A nice tan. In shape. And some intensity. That dude looks like he’d answer ‘whatever you want’ every time you ask him what he wants for dinner.” When I’m done Billy’s eyes are wide and blinking furiously. “What?”
“You just describe Allard.”
“I did not.”
“Yeah. You kind of did.” Billy smirks. “He’s tanned, a little shorter than you, in excellent shape, and his intensity is one of the reasons he needs a bunch of people to fix his reputation, including a fake boyfriend.”
I turn to glare at my bestie walking beside me. I can see guys we pass checking him out. After all, Billy was born pretty. Also, thankfully for me, he was born without a judgmental bone in his body. I came out to him when we were sixteen. He's actually the first person I ever told. He was super quiet at first and my heart seized thinking I'd just lost my best friend. And then he said, "Cool. But look, I'm into girls so you can jerk off to thoughts of how hot I am, but that's it." To which I responded by calling him a fucking narcissist. And that was that. He never talks about my sexuality like it's any different than his own. Because it isn't.
"Ah… I'm right, aren't I? You think Gabriel is hot."
“He’s not ugly,” I mutter.
Billy laughs.
When we’re in the hallway leading to the door. “I think Gabriel would have kissed me again tonight.”
Billy’s jaw drops, which is quite the feat. Nothing shocks him. He’s usually the one doing the shocking. I feel a little surge of victory that I’ve finally done it to him after all these years. “You entertained the thought!”
“I didn’t.” The words leave my mouth so quickly they’re coated in insincerity and Billy laughs so I relent. “Okay, I felt a desire to entertain the thought. I mean, he’s hot. Undeniably. But I can’t and you know that. Not for fun anyway. So I told him about the work thing.”
Billy continues laughing as we step out of the club into the muggy Montreal night. For a place that’s colder than a witch’s tit eight months of the year, Canada sure as hell can do hot. Humid seems to be Montreal’s middle name right now, in late August. “I wish I could’ve seen that exchange. I’m sure it was a car crash. The good kind, not the kind I’m usually in.”
I roll my eyes as we turn left and stroll slowly down the sidewalk back toward our hotel, which is only four blocks away. He grins at me like I've just impressed him. "You are going to enjoy pretending to be Gabe’s lover.”
“It’s a job,” I reply.
Billy shakes his head, his blond hair glimmering gold in the moonlight. "Workplace romances are all the rage. Look at me and Frankie."
“Nope. Not for me.”
“We’ll see,” Billy laughs.
I flip him the bird.
6GABRIEL
Gettingout of a Formula One car is a frustrating series of tasks. Undoing the six-point harness, removing the headrest, releasing and removing the steering wheel. It's a lot. We actually have to prove we can get out in five seconds or less, as a safety requirement, but today after practice I take my sweet time. Because I have to go deal with the media and then I have to go to the meeting with my dad, Damien, Henri, and Axel. Fucking Axel. I just don't want to deal with all of that, especially him. I can't believe my hot mystery kiss from half a decade ago is now the man in charge of cleaning up my dumpster fire of an image.
Aimee, the youngest, perkiest member of the Mayflower media team is waiting for me when I finally get out of the car and peel off my helmet, balaclava, and gloves. She hands me a bottle of water and levels me with her hundred-watt smile. "Good job out there. P5 is your best finish yet."
“It’s a practice session, not a race. Not even qualifying,” I mutter.
She nods. “Yup. But it’s still something. Like it or not.”
“Not,” I grumble back at her. Her smile doesn’t even falter. I think they assigned her to me because she doesn’t let my black cloud of an attitude affect her at all.
She follows me as I walk toward the media. It’s been drizzling today so they’ve been corralled under a tent. My fellow Mayflower driver, Sterling Samuels, is already halfway through the pack. A Lighthouse Racing driver, Cristian, is right in front of me. He smiles and stops his interview to shake my hand. “Great job out there, Allard.”
“We’ll see if I can do it again when it counts.”
